the railway station.’
‘Then let me drive you, I have the car today, Freddi is in Potsdam.’
Orlova started to say no, then realized it would be faster than looking for a taxi and said yes.
Dusk came early to Berlin in December, yet many drivers were stubborn about turning on their headlights and it was hard to see them. At Orlova’s direction, Trudi, knuckles white as she gripped the wheel, worked her way towards the Lehrter Bahnhof, Berlin’s international railway terminal. Watching the traffic as it came at them, Orlova fought for control of her mind, fought to suppress the sharp little flashes of panic so she could concentrate. She doubted she would survive a search of her apartment — the Leica camera, the Walther automatic — and she realized that her time in Berlin was over. Now she had to run, to some other country and, wherever in the world she went, she knew they would take her if they found her.
‘Are you worrying, Olga dear?’
‘What?’
‘Are you worrying, I said. You’re being very quiet.’
‘Yes, I am worried.’
‘Don’t, please don’t. Everything will turn out for the best, I promise.’
Trudi had taken at least two wrong turns, each time provoking loud blasts from the horns of irritated drivers, which made her visibly flinch. Her car was a small Opel and, given the rules of the road in Berlin, drivers of fancier models bullied the cheaper car. But, at last, they reached the Lehrter Bahnhof. Naturally there were crowds of SS men at the entries, and to Orlova’s eyes they looked particularly grim and determined. They were, she thought, waiting for her. The Opel jerked to a stop as Trudi stamped on the brakes and said, ‘Sorry.’ Then, ‘Well, here we are. Where are you going? Can you tell me?’
‘Zurich.’
‘Is there someone in Zurich…’ Trudi didn’t quite know how to finish this question but Orlova understood what she meant: a lover, perhaps a secret lover. For Trudi, a rival.
Possible answers tumbled across Orlova’s mind; my beloved aunt, who has only days to live, my oldest friend, who has only days to live, but none of them sounded credible. Heavy traffic moved about the station, busy this time of night with travellers coming and going. Finally, Orlova said, ‘Trudi, I think I had better tell you something. The fact is, I’m in trouble.’
‘I knew it! I felt it!’
‘Trouble with the Gestapo.’
‘My God! What have you done?’
‘Nothing. But I have enemies, vicious enemies who are jealous of my connections with important people, and they’ve spread terrible rumours about me. I didn’t think that anyone would believe such things, but I was wrong.’
‘You’re running away, Olga, aren’t you.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘They’ll catch you if you try to get on a train, that’s where they look for people, it’s in the newspapers all the time.’
‘I know,’ Orlova said. She had with her two passports, one her own, the other a false passport, a Swiss passport, with a different name. She always carried a lot of money, that was a basic rule of clandestine life. What she had to do was become that other woman, and get out of Germany. ‘Trudi,’ she said, ‘can you find a small hotel somewhere?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ Trudi said, pressed the clutch to the floor and forced the shift into first gear.
Driving away from the station, she took side streets, until they came upon a small building with a sign over the door, HOTEL LUXURIA. Trudi parked the car and the two women entered the hotel. Yes, they had a room available. When asked about luggage, Orlova explained that they’d missed their train and left their luggage in the baggage room. And, by the way, was there a pharmacy nearby? There was, a block away on the Bernauer Strasse.
It was a tired little room, a commercial traveller’s room: twin beds with thin, floral coverlets, a single chair, a rusty sink, WC down the hall. Orlova described what she needed and, once Trudi headed off to the pharmacy, she lay down on one of the beds and stared up at the lightbulb in the ceiling. If she did manage to get away, what would she do with her life? She had money in Switzerland, enough to last for a few years if she lived frugally. As a fugitive, her movie star days were over. But then, her spying days were also over. What would it be like to live in obscurity, quiet as a mouse, always waiting for a knock on the door? A German knock, or a Russian knock. My God, she thought, they will all come looking for me.
Twenty minutes later, Trudi returned, with scissors and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Orlova said, ‘Trudi, you are going to cut my hair. Short, very short, above the ears, like a boy.’
‘I don’t really know how, I’m afraid I’ll make a mess of it.’
‘No matter, just snip away, and when you’re done you’re going to make me a blonde.’
Trudi took a deep breath; she couldn’t say no to her friend, she just had to be careful and take her time. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I’ll do as you ask. But if I’m going to use the peroxide, you’d better take off your dress, and your slip.’ After a last look at her old self in the cloudy mirror above the sink, and as Trudi, scissors in hand, watched her, Orlova undressed.
The following morning, the newly blonde and boyish Orlova stood at the door, anxious to leave. But when she put her hand on the knob, Trudi stopped her. ‘Wait, please wait,’ she said. ‘Just a few seconds. I lay awake for a long time last night, thinking about myself, and about my life, and I made a decision. Olga, I don’t want to lose you, I want to run away with you if you’ll let me. I know it will be difficult, and I will have to write to Freddi and tell him what I’ve done, but I don’t want to go back to him. I want to follow my heart, I want to stay with you.’
Orlova was moved by this and showed it. And with all the kindness she could muster she said, ‘You know I can’t let you do that. Sharing the life of a fugitive will not make you happy. Please don’t cry. I will never forget what you said, Trudi, I will always remember you, but I must go on alone.’
For a moment, Trudi fought back tears. Finally she said, ‘All right, Olga, I understand, so I have only one last request. I would like a kiss, a kiss goodbye, a real kiss.’
They held each other, the kiss was warm and slow and touched with sadness. Then they left the hotel. At Orlova’s direction, Trudi drove out of Berlin to nearby Wannsee. From there, Orlova spent a long day taking local trains until she reached the city of Frankfurt where, at the main terminal, she bought a ticket and, an hour later, was on her way to Prague.
18 December. Early in the morning, Stahl left Renate’s apartment and returned to the Claridge. In the bathroom mirror, he found shadows beneath his eyes — that dissolute Colonel Vadic — so used a washcloth and cold water as a compress. Perhaps this helped, but not much. By nine o’clock he was out at Joinville, where they had to do retakes of scenes that hadn’t, for a variety of reasons, turned out right. A mysterious hand on the back of a chair, a hat magically gone in mid-conversation, a line badly delivered, Pasquin’s sergeant saying, ‘Jean, let me try that again.’ Before they started shooting, the make-up man worked on Stahl and removed the evidence of a night rather too well spent.
When Renate Steiner arrived on the set, carrying a different tunic for the lieutenant, she seemed all business, but she glanced at Stahl and a certain look passed between them. It was the look of those who see each other for the first time after making love, for the first time, the night before, and it made his heart soar. Then a technician approached with a question and Stahl had to turn away, but he would not forget that moment. Renate held up the ‘blood’-spattered tunic by the shoulders and said to Avila, ‘This will be much better, Jean. Now he’s really been shot.’
At the end of the day, Stahl walked over to Renate’s workroom but she wasn’t there so he returned to the hotel and telephoned her. He would pick her up at 7.30, they would have dinner at Balzar, an active, noisy bistro in the Sixth. ‘We can have the mache-betterave,’ he said, a salad of beets and sweet little clumps of mache lettuce with a mustard-flavoured dressing. ‘Then perhaps a steak-frites or a ragout of veal. Everything there is good.’
When he arrived at the rue Varlin tenement, the concierge welcomed him back with a sly but affectionate smile: she knew, she approved. On the top floor, Renate was still getting dressed so Stahl sat on the sofa, recalling favoured details of what had gone on there the night before. When the telephone rang, Renate said ‘Now what?’ and answered with a brusque ‘Hello?’ She listened for a moment, then turned to Stahl, clearly puzzled, and said, ‘It’s for you. How would…’ She didn’t finish the question, simply handed him the receiver.
